


Blood of the Convenant

by staranon



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Angst, Fake AH Crew, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, half brother au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-23 18:51:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17688956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staranon/pseuds/staranon
Summary: Ryan once made a promise that he couldn't keep. Years later, the consequences of that broken promise catch up to him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> soooo i wrote a half-brother au a while back now and decided to post its 3 parts to ao3 in proper. the rest of the chapters will follow.
> 
> enjoy!

Ryan storms out of the house, slamming the door on his way out, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his too large leather jacket. His breath is misting. It’s cold. The sky is clear with the moon shining down upon him. He doesn’t feel the cold. His blood is burning too hot. He’s angry. Pissed off at Craig and up to the last straw. He’s done. He’s done with them. He’s done with their family. He’s done with their dumb ass rules and—

“Ryan!”

He stops, anger abated at the voice as he turns around. Trevor runs after him. The t-shirt he wears is too big, and it pulls at Ryan’s heartstrings for a moment. He remembers when his mother brought Trevor home for the first time when he was eight. He was so small then. He’s still small even now, all gangly limbs wrapped up in second hand clothing.

“Where you going?” he asks, crossing his arms.

He’s barely ten, Ryan remembers. This city will eat him alive if Ryan leaves, but his foster family has made it clear that he’s too much trouble and not worth the time. Besides, he’s turning eighteen in six months. He’ll age out of the system. They’ll have an excuse to kick him out of the house if they’re so inclined.

“I can’t stay here, Trevor,” Ryan says softly. The anger and hate he felt has left him for now. He can’t lie to his brother. “It won’t work. They’re threatening to have me arrested if I stay any longer because of the gangs I’ve been … dealing with.”

“But what about … me? You promised you’d stay. You promised you wouldn’t leave me.”

“I know, I know.” He sets his hand on Trevor’s shoulder. The boy pouts and shakes him off. “I just … I can do more on my own. I’ll get a job. I’ll get the money and when I’m eighteen, I can get custody of you. And we can be together then.”

“But you’re leaving,” Trevor says and Ryan knows he’s upset. “You can’t just leave me here with them! You  _promised you wouldn’t leave!”_

Ryan sighs and gets down on one knee to look Trevor in the eye. “I know. We’re brothers. We’re meant to stay together. And I know I promised you. I know I said I’d get us out, but plans change. You just need to trust me for a little while longer, okay?” He reaches out again and this time Trevor doesn’t shy away.

It’s never been easy for them, the half-brothers with a protective streak a mile wide. Bounced around from foster home to foster home because they fought tooth and nail to be together. Ryan swore from the first day he saw Trevor that he would protect him. That they would be together as a family should. They were all they had in the end if you stripped everything away.

“Hey,” Ryan says, ducking his head a bit so he can catch Trevor’s gaze. “Come on.” He tries to play it off. “It’s not going to be that bad. I’m not going far. I’m not leaving the city. I’m not leaving  _you._ ”

Trevor softens a bit when he says, “You better not.”

Ryan offers him a reassuring smile. He stands up and crushes Trevor against him. “I’ll be back. This won’t be the last you hear of me, okay?”

He feels Trevor nod against him. “Okay.”

…

It’s not easy to make a living in Los Santos. It’s not easy making it on your own. It’s not easy to be a decent person where everyone is ready to put a knife in your back or a gun to your head. Ryan loses much in his first few months on the streets, trying to find a gang that will take him, a job that will make him a living. They don’t care about his sob story. They don’t care about his dreams and aspirations. They just want to know if he can follow orders, if he’s capable of doing what needs to be done. He loses what’s left of his innocence. He loses everything that used to make him happy. Eventually, he loses his identity.

There’s a saying of this city that Los Santos is willing to take more than you’re willing to give. Well, it came to a point where Ryan thought he didn’t have much more to lose.

He was wrong.

…

He’s the Vagabond now. The killer with the black skull mask. The mercenary with no boundaries. If you pay him well enough, he’ll do what he needs to do. Cross him once, and you’ll find yourself at the end of his barrel.

The Vagabond is cold. The Vagabond is unfeeling. The Vagabond is a lone wolf.

He meets the Kingpin one night finishing up a job. He crouches over a body, sweeping it for ID so he can collect his pay.

“Love your work.” The Vagabond turns to see the Kingpin, smartly dressed as he always is, leaning against the building. “You always make it so clean. You actually give your victims the benefit of dying with dignity. Well,” he says, pushing off to walk around the blood soaked corpse. “If they’re worthy of it that is.”

The Vagabond pulls out the driver’s licence and pockets it. “What’s it to you?”

Not many bosses in this city are willing to walk up to the Mad Merc on a job. But the Kingpin— _Geoff Ramsey—_ clearly doesn’t have those kind of inclinations.

“Ever tire of the lone wolf game?” Ramsey asks as the Vagabond cleans his knife on his target’s clothing.

“It’s fine with me.”

Ramsey raises an eyebrow. “You sure about that? Ever get tired of looking over your shoulder? Of not having anyone to trust?”

“What are you suggesting?” The Vagabond takes a slow moment to stretch to his full height. He hasn’t yet sheathed his knife.

“I’ve got a proposition for you. I’m in the market for a merc who knows his way around a blade. And you, my cheery friend, fit the bill. Name your price.”

The Vagabond names one—ridiculously high because while he’s heard of Ramsey’s success at taming the city, he doubts he’ll be able to hold him. Everyone wants the Vagabond, but not everyone is willing to let him have free reign. They want a collared merc. Not a freelancer.

“Fine,” Ramsey says and his smile is still smug. He hands the Vagabond a calling card and walks away. “Drop by the tower whenever it suits you.”

The Vagabond looks at the calling card. A black field with a green rubber duck surrounded by what looks like a scope sight. On the back is a number and a name. The Fakes.

Huh.

Something this bad has got to be good.

…

He’s been with them a few years now and taken back a bit of his humanity on the way. He never thought he could trust. He never thought he could love. Such trivial emotions break you in Los Santos. But with the Fakes it only makes him stronger. They’re family, in a way. Each with their own flare for the dramatic. Each with a story. Each with a reason why they want to take this city and make it their bitch. Los Santos has taken a lot from each of them. And now they’re taking it back piece by piece.

Ryan had a dream once. It was a simple dream of a two bedroom apartment where Trevor could go off to a good school and get a good job and get out of this city. That’s all Ryan wanted for him in the end. If Ryan couldn’t leave, then he’d sacrifice everything to get Trevor out.

But that dream is just a dream.

When he was getting on, when the Vagabond was taking off, he went back to his old foster him after a few years. Trevor would’ve been fifteen maybe sixteen by then.

“The kid’s gone,” his old foster mother told him. “Took off with all the money we had too. CAS never found him.” She shrugged like it was no big deal and closed the door.

Even with his connections, he hasn’t been able to find Trevor. He’s worried that if he asks Gavin, the Fakes’ resident hacker, he’ll find a morgue report of a John Doe with Trevor’s lifeless face on the report, one of the many swimming in the databases of Los Santos’s city officials. It’s a question that’s been digging in the back of his mind for a while now. It’s what gets to him when it’s been two days since he’s slept and he’s nearing his breaking point. When he cries silently and one of the members tries to ask him what’s wrong and he’s unable to find the words to tell him.

Los Santos broke him long ago. He was the Vagabond before they knew him as Ryan. There’s nothing to him other than the cold killer. The protective brother died, was buried and forgotten. There’s nothing anyone could do for him.

That is until the city decides to throw him a bone on a stick, something meant to tease him with.

He’s on a job with Gavin, the Golden Boy, the negotiator. He’s there as silent muscle to make sure the deal goes through with a new trader their working with.

They got to the pier, out on the docks where no sniper fire could take place. They’re both wearing ear pieces and Michael and Jeremy are on back up duty while Jack and Geoff watch from the tower back in the city. They’re not too concerned that this deal will end up badly. Besides, the trader is a two-bit conman who’s working a start-up operation. He’s hardly a threat to the Fakes, the owners of Los Santos.

But when they meet first to first, Ryan is left feeling like he’s been punched in the gut.

Behind the trader is Trevor, holding a gun, trying to play the part of menacing but failing somehow. There’s a dark bruise on his cheek. His knuckles look bloody, like he’s been punching something bare handed. He looks thin. He looks like the kid Ryan promised he’d never leave but did.

 _What are you doing here?_ he wants to ask but can’t because the Vagabond doesn’t have family. The Vagabond doesn’t have an obvious weakness.

So he lets Gavin do his work while he keeps a fixed eye on Trevor, the brother he thought was dead or worse.

When the deal is finished, the Golden boy packs up. The Vagabond turns and follows him. He doesn’t look back, although Ryan wishes he had.

Even though the deal is a success, Ryan doesn’t feel like celebrating. He’s irritable. All he can think about is Trevor and all that he must’ve gone through to land here. What did he do to try and find Ryan? How many nights did he spend on the streets? How many did he cross and end up with a fist to his mouth?

“Hey, buddy!” Geoff says and claps him on the shoulder. “Why such the long face? Get a drink!”

Ryan stands up and moves away from the bar. “I’m not in the mood,” he says, coldly and reminiscent of the Vagabond’s tone. He leaves the bar their at and heads home alone.

His mood does not lighten over the next few days. In fact, it worsens. Gavin comes across the news that their trader was picked off. His own crew was amalgamated with a larger one that is steadily posing a problem with the Fakes and their territory. Geoff doesn’t seem all that concerned, though. The Fakes are untouchable, damn near immortal and they’ll prove their might again and again. Nothing will tear them apart. Except maybe a loose cannon like the Vagabond.

They pull in the information of the gang and what they’re up against. They get faces, names, specialties. Trevor is just one of a bunch, clearly taken in and put to use. The grainy photo from a camera plagues him as it sits on Gavin’s work desk.  _He’s just a kid._

_You were too once._

This city is unkind. But Ryan knows how to make it work for him.

It isn’t until their in the heist room that Ryan finally snaps. Geoff directs them, points to which gang member they’ll take out. Trevor is among the ones they’ve classified as pawns—cannon fodder basically. They’re the soft targets they’ll remove first and suddenly Ryan can’t take it anymore. He lets his secret out.

“Not him,” he says, deathly low.

They all look at him.

“What?” Geoff asks.

“Not him.” He raises his eyes, dark and hard, as he taps the photo of Trevor.

“And why not?”

“Because he’s my brother!” The admission comes out more forcefully than he meant it to and then there’s the regret.

They know now. He can’t take it back. The Vagabond has a brother. A weakness. An exploitation.

He leaves the room immediately and goes to his room. He pulls out his emergency bag for when he needs a quick getaway. He pulls on the mask and heads for the elevator. The door is about to close when Geoff slaps a hand in and prevents him from leaving.

“Don’t cross me,” the Vagabond says.

“Then tell me what’s wrong,” Geoff says. “What was that back in there?” He sounds genuinely concerned, but the Vagabond’s been played before. He doesn’t fall twice.

“Let me go or there will be consequences.”

The other Fakes gather around Geoff. They try to coax Ryan out of the elevator, but the Vagabond doesn’t budge.

“I respect your right to your privacy,” Geoff offers, “and I respect it if you have a family. But you need to tell me what’s up before you do something you regret. We can help you. We’re not going to leave you alone in this, okay?”

The Vagabond doesn’t trust people, but Ryan does. So he takes a moment to breathe and collect himself before he exits the elevator and decides to explain to them what it is. He only says that Trevor is his half-brother. And at that, they get it. Family. They know the feeling well.

“What can we do to help?” they ask.

And all Ryan has to say is, “Just bring him back to me.” And he knows that they’ll have his back in anything he does.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Trevor's end of things, he has a different view of the events that transpired.

Trevor’s first encounter with the police was when he was fifteen. Fresh on the streets, getting to know the rougher gangs, the initiations, the fights, the weapons.

He ended up with his mugshot in the LSPD two months after he left his foster home.

He was sick of waiting. Ryan promised he would come back. He  _promised_ he would always be there for Trevor, that they would have the home they always wanted. Together. No one would ever tear them apart. When he was a kid, that’s what he believed in. That’s what got him through the day, believing that eventually all this bull shit would end and no one would try to tear him apart from his brother.

He never imagined the one to do it would actually be Ryan in the end.

Five years. He’s been gone five years. Hell, he could be dead for all Trevor knows. Even if that makes him sad, Trevor knows he’s all alone. Los Santos takes what it wants from its inhabitants. It took his mother, his deadbeat father—the man he never knew. It made sense that it would one day take the only person who ever mattered to him.

So he left like Ryan left, off to find something he couldn’t name. The teenage gangs, the starter ones, thought he was scrappy. He fought tooth and nail for a place, earning more bruises and split lips than he ever did with a shit foster parent.

He got arrested. Let off with a warning because the crime he committed was a misdemeanor. They tried to get him hooked up with the CAS because he was a minor, but he ran off the moment he had a moment to himself. Jumped out the bathroom window and  _bam._ He was on the streets again.

He’s scrappy. He’s wily. He learns what to say, what to do to please the right people. It’s not the life he imagined for himself—drug running, toting weapons, carrying messages, providing cover, laundering money, and so on and so on until his soul is filthy with it all. Heavy with the crimes until he’s sinking, drowning and knowing that he’ll probably live until he’s twenty-five before he’s killed in a crossfire. The number one killer in Los Santos.

The older he gets, the more useful he becomes. He gets picked up by gangs just looking for pawns, for guards of their wares and products. He’s given a gun and expected to keep his mouth shut. Asking questions just gets him  _looks._ Like if you keep talking, kid, you’ll find yourself with a pair of cement shoes. We don’t pay you for your tongue. We pay you for your brawn.  _Get to work._

It’s not easy living life like this. He feels hollow on the inside. He’s numb to it all, hardly unfeeling to the crimes he commits, to the lives he ends, to the suffering he leaves in his wake. This is Los Santos. This is a way of life.

He picks up skills, makes himself useful in more ways than one. He can pick locks. He can hack. He can shoot. He can fight hand to hand. He can be trusted. He can keep his mouth shut. But for many people, all it takes is one look for them to decide that they don’t like him. They don’t like his face. They don’t like his look. They don’t trust him. They never will. That makes survival a bit harder.

They put him back in line whenever they thought he was getting too rowdy. A quick punch to the gut. A quick shove so he’s on his knees. The cold barrel of a gun pressed against his forehead. Trevor has no wishes to die. He has some sense of self preservation, so he does what they want. He begs. He pleads. He does what he needs to do because he’s a survivor. He can pull on any act they want. The tearful youth. The cold and calculating bluff. The apathetic gangster. He blends. He hides. He does what is necessary.

He loses himself so easily within these roles that he becomes buried in them, loses himself in everything he’s constructed.

Who is he? Truly?

Is he the half brother of Ryan?

Is he the delinquent foster child?

Is he the statistical failure of Los Santos’s CAS department?

Is he a gangster? A criminal? A freedom fighter against the corrupt forces of the LSPD?

What is he? What role is the right one to choose? Which one won’t leave him damned for all of eternity?

He doesn’t know. So eventually he stops caring.

Eventually, like everyone else in Los Santos, he becomes aware of the Fakes, the notorious criminal gang with a flair for the dramatic in their heists. They’re different from everyone else because while they seem to leave destruction wherever they go, they seem to have a Robin Hood-esque vibe to them. It’s not exactly the overt ‘steal from the rich and give to the poor,’ but to Trevor it becomes clear that they’re trying to do something about the corruption in Los Santos in their very own corrupt way. They care not for the destruction they cause, but at the end of the day, someone benefits from it, whether it’s a homeless shelter, the after school programs for the underprivileged youth, the local dog shelter. They care in their own way. But the amount of destruction and pain that they cause is absurd. They seem to both hate and love this city with a passion.

And quietly Trevor takes it all in, watches the endless news clips he can get his hands on. He observes the core six members of the gang.

The Kingpin

The Ace Pilot

Vagabond

Mogar

The Golden Boy

The Brawler

He’s vaguely aware of other members behind the scenes, the ones that are shielded and protected by the vibrant display the Fakes put on every time they’re active. The B Team, the Stream Team, and various others. He hears of them, and he wishes that he could leave and go to the Fakes, ask them to take him in, because what he realizes is /that/ is what he wants. He wants their passion and meaningful destruction. He wants their direction and guidance. He feels like they could offer him something he’s always been looking for.

And maybe then he can know peace.

* * *

When everyone just lives for power, that power changes hands in quick succession. Trevor will work for one gang and then another when the previous gang has been taken over, consumed and eaten alive. He gets by on his multitude of skills. Keeps his head low. But as one day he comes to work with a big name in the city, he eventually attracts the attention of the Fakes.

But he’s nothing special. He’s just a pawn, a lackey in the grand scheme of things. Cannon fodder. He expects he won’t make it, not if he comes across the Vagabond.

He’s heard of the name. Everyone has. The merc with a mask, knowing every possible way to kill a person even with his bare hands. He’s the Grim Reaper, the Angel of Death you’d never want to meet. And if you do, you better pray he finds you worthy of a clean death. Because while the man may be walking sin, if he judges you to be worse than him, you’ll find yourself talking a long walk through an agonizing death.

He comes across them while protecting a warehouse. He’s on the night shift, nearly dead on his feet and struggling to keep his brain from going numb. He has a gun in his hands, too big for his stature. It jerks him back too much when he fires. He’s better suited for handguns, knives, things that are light and quiet. He doesn’t like to make noise. He never did.

He hears a pebble bounce across the ground. He whirls, raises his gun, and aims at the solitary figure standing on the pier. The water laps quietly beneath their feet.

The Vagabond stands before him. He carries no weapons, at least none that Trevor can see. His hands are tucked neatly into his coat pockets.

If there’s one Fake, there has to be more. They travel in packs. In groups.

“I was wondering if—” the Vagabond says.

Trevor goes for the radio perched on his shoulder. “I have eyes on the Vagabond. Repeat. I have eyes on the Vagabond.” As much as he wants to join the Fakes, he’s not stupid. He won’t be caught dead betraying his crew, not if his safety isn’t guaranteed.

The Vagabond sighs. “I really wish you hadn’t done that.”

As soon as the Vagabond makes a move, Trevor pulls the trigger, but the Vagabond is quicker. He quickly ducks out of sight.

As he scans for the merc, he listens in on the radio. There are other reports of the other Fakes having been seen. They’ve come for them.

Trevor needs a plan. If all the Fakes are here, none of them will leave alive.

He can run. He’s quick on his feet. He’s a survivor. He’s a fighter. He can make it. He can disappear.

“This doesn’t need to happen,” the Vagabond says from the shadows.

Trevor moves to follow the voice.  _It’s too dark to fucking see._

“You can give up.”

He fires off a shot. Silence. Then—

“I’m not here to hurt you.”

“Your track record tells a  _completely_  different story.”

The Vagabond hums thoughtfully. He steps out from the shadows. Knowing that a rifle won’t do him any good in a close quarters fight, Trevor drops his gun and pulls out his knife.

“You don’t need to fight,” the Vagabond says and he sounds too calm for some reason. It unsettles Trevor in many ways.

“Yeah, well, I’m not in the business to listen to masked weirdos. I was raised better than that.”

When the Vagabond comes within striking range, Trevor reaches to strike out. They dance. They parry. Trevor’s too scared out of his mind to do anything else. He’s purely in the fight instinct. Or perhaps the lesser known instinct of freezing. Deer in the headlights style.

Where does he go from here?

The Vagabond isn’t really fighting, though. He’s on the defence, jumping away from the strikes of Trevor’s knife until he grows sloppy, let’s Trevor get too close and gets swiped along the arm. The leather jacket is no match for the sharp tip of the blade. He slices through it easily and grazes the Vagabond’s arm.

The Vagabond grunts and jerks back. He looks at the wound and shakes his arm. “Fuck.”

While he’s more concerned with the cut than with Trevor, Trevor plans to slip away. But before he can, someone hits the back of his head. Hard.

He falls onto the pier, eyes rolling, world spinning. He’s lost the grip on his knife.

“I  _told_ you not to hurt him,” the Vagabond says, sounding annoyed.

“A little bump on the head isn’t gonna hurt him much.” That voice. The lilting accent. It’s the Golden Boy.

Trevor’s managed to flip onto his stomach and push himself to his hands and knees.

“We’ve been over this,” the Vagabond says and there’s the biting tone Trevor has heard of before. That sounds more like the Vagabond.

“Well, grab him and let’s go. Jeremy and Michael are almost done with the charges. They should be out—”

_FOOM!_

The warehouse they’re outside of suddenly explodes. All three are pushed back by the force. Trevor lands hard on his already spinning head.

“CHRIST ALIVE!” the Golden Boy shouts. “ARE YOU GUYS TRYING TO GET US KILLED?!”

As his vision blurs, Trevor sees the black skull mask of the Vagabond above him. And for a moment he thinks he sees something merciful and concerning in those blue eyes.

* * *

He wakes up on a comfortable bed. It’s day time. His head still kills him and when he reaches back, he can feel a slight bump. When he turns over on his bed, he sees the Vagabond slumped in a chair next to his bedside. He appears to be asleep. It’s odd to see a man such as he so vulnerable.

As he becomes more aware of his surroundings, he sees the Kingpin Ramsey standing in the doorway. He’s not dressed in one of his trademark suits, but rather a plain t-shirt and jeans. How odd.

“Good to see you’re awake,” Ramsey says and comes to stand at the foot of the bed. Trevor sits up against the headboard.

“Where am I?” Trevor asks, scanning the room for anything that will make a good weapon should he need it.

“The tower,” Ramsey says. “We brought you here last night after that—” he sighs, rather like a tired parent, “—unfortunate fuck up on my  _associates_ part. The big guy here refused to leave.” He jerks his thumb to where the Vagabond is slumped.

“Riiiiight,” Trevor says, skeptical. “Tell me. Is this some sort of bizarre Stockholm Syndrome set up? Because I’m happy with not having to sympathize with you guys. Or really go through the whole process of that.”

Ramsey smiles. “Listen, kid. You’re only here because  _he_ wants you here.” He points to the Vagabond again.

“Why?”

“Not my place to say. If you need anything just holler.”

Ramsey turns around and leaves the room, closing the door softly behind him. As soon as the door latches, the Vagabond jerks. He’s very ungraceful as he wakes up. He stretches. Trevor hears several of his joints crack. Once that is done, the Vagabond looks up and finds Trevor looking back at him. Trevor crosses his arms.

“I’m not into the whole stalking thing,” Trevor says. “So whatever it is you think you know about me, it’s probably a huge fucking lie.”

“Yeah,” the Vagabond admits. “I didn’t really think this thing through. It doesn’t help that the others totally fucked up last night. But then again, things usually don’t go our way.”

“What was it supposed to be then?”

The Vagabond reaches a hand up and scratches the back of his neck. “A reunion? I don’t know. It’s been so long. And I just got so used to the mask that it’s hard to take off sometimes.”

Trevor rolls his eyes. “What reunion? We’ve never met before.”

“Well, here goes nothing.” The Vagabond pulls off the mask and sets it on the ground. When he looks up at Trevor, Trevor immediately looks away.

It’s been over  _ten god damned years._

But Trevor never forgot. In fact, the moment his brother stepped out of his life was the moment his new one began.

“Oh my god,  _oh my god._ ” He puts his head in his hands and rubs at his face.

“Trevor—”

“You fucking moron,” Trevor says. “Oh my god. How did this happen?”

“I can explain everything.”

“No.” Trevor shuts him up with one look. Ryan has the decency to look chastised. “Do you have  _any_ idea what I’ve been through? You promised me as a kid you’d come back. Do you have  _any_ idea how much it hurt when I knew you wouldn’t come back.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Yeah, well it still happened.”

They lapse into silence.

“I’m so fucking angry with you that I don’t even have the words right now to explain how angry I am with you. You were the Vagabond the whole fucking time? You were in the city this whole fucking time?”

“I always meant to come back,” Ryan says and when Trevor doesn’t interrupt him, he continues. “But I made a name for myself too early on. I couldn’t go back. And by the time I could, you were gone. I always looked for you. I did. I know it doesn’t mean much now, but I found you in the end. You’re safe here. For as long as you want to stay.”

Trevor can’t look at him right now. He’s folded his legs up and leans upon them. He’s just tired really. The brother he always wanted is finally here, so why does he feel like shit? Why isn’t he healing?

After a few minutes spent in silence, Ryan moves. He collects his mask and moves to the door. “I’ll leave you be,” he says. “I’m sorry about the way this worked out. If you ever want anything, if you want to leave the city, if you want to start over, we can help you. Okay?”

He turns towards the door and sets a foot beyond the threshold.

“Hey, Ryan,” Trevor says.

Ryan looks over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“The mask?” he says. “ _Super_ fucking tacky.”

Ryan grins. “You’re not the only one who thinks that.”


	3. Chapter 3

It takes time for Trevor to settle into a new life here in the tower. Life with the Fakes is a never ending surprise of chaos and improvisation led by alcohol fueled fever dreams.

Today they’ll rob a bank wearing eagle masks and garishly red suits.

Today they’ll see if they’re cut out to make a biker gang.

Today they’ll have drinks on top of Mount Chiliad and fire off some firework rockets.

It’s all so bizarre. They all clearly have a death wish, but then again, anyone in a gang in Los Santos does. They all have nothing else to lose, so they might as well take what they can get.

Geoff “the Kingpin” Ramsey gets him a job with the B Team. The B Team are used for the pre and post heist operations. They must scout out the place intended for the heist, learn of the comings and goings of those who frequent it, any security measures, any surprises they must be aware of. And after, they must ensure a clean getaway, erasing all traces of their presence there should they actually want a clean getaway.

It’s a dream scenario really. The Fakes and the organizations associated with them are known for taking care of their own. Trevor doesn’t have to worry about getting stabbed in the back. He doesn’t have to worry about his safety. He can sleep easily. He has access to hot food and cold drinks whenever he wants. No one is suspicious of him. No one is after his position. It’s … nice.

But it’s not always easy. Whenever Geoff invites the other side teams for drinks with the main Fakes, Trevor is a bit uneasy being so close to Ryan, the Vagabond, the Mad Merc, the Devil of Death, for he’s not an Angel. Angels bring mercy. Angels protect. The Vagabond is unkindly, vicious, cold. It’s difficult to see the Vagabond wearing his brother’s face.

Ryan said he’d protect him. Ryan said he’d always be there for him. Both of which were lies, in a way. He didn’t protect him when Trevor needed him, but they found each other in the end. That counts for something, right?

But Trevor doesn't feel like it does. It doesn't make up for the years of misery after he ran off. He can't just forget about those feelings of abandonnment his younger self felt in those years. 

With the pay he gets from the Fakes, he's able to afford a decent one bedroom apartment. It gives him the necessary space to claim as his own and let no one inside. He's never had this luxury before, and it's nice. It also means he can get away from Ryan whenever he needs to. He hasn't spoken to Ryan since Geoff welcomed him into the fold and gave him some jobs to do. Ryan's tried to speak to him on a few occassions, but Trevor has ignored him as steadfastly as he can. But then Ryan got a hold of his cellphone number and after a few unanswered texts later, he got the hint and gave Trevor his space. 

He doesn't mind working with the B Team. Matt, Kdin, Lindsay. They're great. They all have this positivity about them that feels infectious. He finds himself becoming friends with them. They invite him out to do fun things, and he's not always working with the Fakes themselves. It gives him a bit of distance from the main crew--especially Ryan.

"So hold on, hold on," Matt says. They're out at some pub, getting greasy burgers at 10 PM on a Thursday night. "You and Ryan are  _brothers._ "

Trevor nods. He's not sure if he wants to talk about this or if he'll just be entirely indifferent to it. 

"Well, half-brothers," he says as if that makes a difference. It just makes him feel like he's more separated from the matter than he really is. "Kind of run of the mill abusive foster home story. Nothing to it."

"That  _can't_ be nothing," Lindsay says. "It's  _Ryan._ Come on. You must have some good stories. Stuff that'll like embarrass him."

Oh. So that's what they want. They want to know Ryan as, well,  _Ryan._ Not the Vagabond. Not anything about 'was he just as dark and dangerous as he is now?' They want silly stories of Ryan growing into his teenage body. How he'd flub his words. How he used to go to speech therapy as a kid because their then-foster parents thought he needed the extra help when he really didn't. They want to know about Ryan as just the human he is. Down to earth. Just like them. 

Trevor shifts in his seat. "Well, I got some stuff." They all sit forward eagerly, and Trevor finds himself sharing some stories from his past. The good stuff. The light hearted stuff. The stuff he held close to himself because they were the only good memories he had of him and Ryan before Ryan became wise to the cruelties of the world and decided to seek something better out for the both of them. 

The thing is talking about all this feels good. He doesn't know if he's doing it for them, for his friends, or for himself. To finally let go of the past and realize what was done is done. He can't change that. But he can have a fresh start. It was by chance that Ryan found him in the end. Maybe this can be their second chance.

After a successful heist some weeks later, everyone is relaxing in the penthouse. It's a sense of companionship that Trevor has never experienced before and he likes it. Eventually, members of both teams being to leave one by one or in pairs, retiring for the night. Trevor suddenly finds himself alone at the table. He'll leave soon, but he feels as if he has something he has to do yet. Ryan is still in the room. He didn’t drink tonight. Apparently he never does. He likes keeping a sharp eye on the other Fakes.

He comes to sit next to Trevor, folds his hands on the table. And for the first time since Trevor was picked up by the Fakes, he's alone with Ryan and he's not exactly sure what to think about that. If he's even ready for what's about to happen. He's not sure if his ten year old self is ready to forgive Ryan. Children hold grudges like no other, but Trevor isn't ten. And he's certainly not a child anymore. So what does that make him now?

 

Ryan is so different now. He’s grown his hair out long, dyed it black. He has scars on his arms, some on his face. He’s not really Trevor’s brother. Not anymore. But then again, Trevor isn’t that ten year old kid anymore waiting for his brother to come back. They’ve changed. Los Santos has taken everything they once were and twisted them each into something unrecognizable.

“Settling in all right?” Ryan asks, and he sounds like the older brother he once was but no longer is.

Trevor nods. “It’s fine.”

Silence.

"I was hoping that we could talk about what happened at some point," Ryan says. Like this, dressed down and looking just like  _him,_ normal Ryan, it's easier to hear the sincerity in his voice. "I want to explain myself. Not to . . . not to provide an excuse, explain my actions away, but I do want to talk about it. So that you know."

It's a lot to consider. It's a lot to take in. But if Trevor is going to stay here, if he's going to be working alongside his brother again, then maybe he needs to reach out halfway again. Extend a hand and pull Ryan along with him. They are completely different people than what they were. Maybe it would be best if they stopped seeing each other as they were and accepted them for who they are now.

"I think I'd like that," he says and he means it. 


End file.
